


make a wish on our sorry little hearts

by bellawritess



Series: malum prompts [9]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship/Love, High School, Kissing, M/M, Pre-Slash, Wishes, and a bit of uh, i don't know what genre this would be called, it's not kissing if it's just one kiss but whatever, melancholy? maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27706763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: “It’s 11:11,” Calum points out through another yawn. Michael looks at the clock by his bed, and sees Calum’s not lying.“Huh,” Michael says. “Make a wish.”
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Series: malum prompts [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026381
Kudos: 4





	make a wish on our sorry little hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killingangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingangels/gifts).



> **prompt:** "what did you wish for?" + playing with hair
> 
> [tumblr link!](https://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/post/619976820609171456/what-did-you-wish-for-with-whoever-but-im)
> 
> title from a love like war by all time low

Michael’s not superstitious.

He’s really not, despite what people say. If anything, he’s too irreverent to be superstitious. If Michael really were superstitious he’d be constantly fearing for his life from all the ghosts he’s sure to have offended. And Michael’s not delusional, either, or even religious. Generally speaking, unless he can see it and confirm it with his own two eyes, unless there’s empirical proof that it’s real, Michael won’t believe it.

But he wishes on 11:11 anyway.

He doesn’t go around spreading that; he likes his reputation as a guy with his feet on the ground and his head screwed on straight. Wishing on the clock is mostly a silent ritual, a concession to the ephemeral laws of fate and fortune, to say, _you did it once, and it was the best thing you ever did_. A thank you, if it’s anything.

(Or maybe Michael is a little wishful, but he doesn’t go spreading that around, either.)

“Mikey.”

Michael glances up from his book; Calum has just entered the room, and he crawls into bed, yawning.

“Hey,” Michael says, bookmarking his page.

“It’s 11:11,” Calum points out through another yawn. Michael looks at the clock by his bed, and sees Calum’s not lying.

“Huh,” Michael says. “Make a wish.”

Calum grins and curls up under the comforter, cheek resting on Michael’s stomach. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Michael ignores him for a moment, allowing his hand to drift to Calum’s hair and gently card through it as he watches the clock. He makes the same wish that he always does, because it’s never failed him yet. Then he waits.

(It’s a little superstitious, okay? But Michael believes that the entire minute of 11:11 is sacred. If you make a wish and then turn your back before the clock changes, the 11:11 wish-granting factory will discard your wish. And nobody wants that.)

When the clock flips to 11:12, Michael scratches his fingers lightly on Calum’s scalp and says, “You going to sleep?”

“What’d you wish for?” Calum asks, like he didn’t hear Michael _just_ ask him a question.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Michael says. “Are you going to sleep?”

“Maybe,” Calum says. “Why won’t you tell me your wish?”

“Because then it won’t come true,” Michael says, trying to make it sound sarcastic even though he firmly believes that platitude. He’s not superstitious. But it’s always better to be safe than sorry.

“That’s bullshit,” Calum says. “C’mon, Mikey.”

“I’m not telling, Cal, it’s a secret and it’ll stay that way.”

“I’m your best friend!”

“Exactly, and wouldn’t you feel terrible if you were the reason my wish didn’t come true?”

“I thought you weren’t superstitious.”

“I’m not,” Michael says automatically. He sighs, because there’s no way Calum will believe it when he says that anymore unless he proves it.

He doesn’t want to be superstitious, but he’d rather be careful than jinx his wish.

“You’re being weird,” Calum says, and yawns. “Wish I weren’t too tired to annoy you about it.”

“You’re already annoying me about it,” Michael says. “Fine. How about this. I’ll tell you what I wished for the _first_ time I wished on 11:11, and then you’ll understand why I don’t want to jinx my wish.”

“Can you tell me while we cuddle?” Calum asks. Michael smiles a bit.

He shuffles down under the duvet, turns off the bedside lamp, and leans his forehead against Calum’s. In the dark, all Michael can see is the faintest outline of Calum’s figure. He can see Calum’s eyes, but only because they’re so close; he can feel Calum’s breath against his mouth. Michael smiles. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Calum says. “Story time?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. He sees Calum close his eyes. “So, uh, picture this. I’m seven years old. My mum’s just told me that sometimes people wish on things like eyelashes, and shooting stars, and, fucking, I don’t know, dandelions. And on the clock, when it’s 11:11. It sounds like a load of horseshit to me, but I’m seven, you know?”

“Are you going to ever actually say what you wished for or just talk around it forever?” Calum mumbles. “I’m gonna fall asleep before the story’s over at this rate.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says, not meaning it. Calum’s so warm and familiar. “Do you want to know or not?” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Okay. So I — that night, I stayed up until 11:11 just to make a wish on it. Just to see. I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t work, so I could be like, _told you so_ to anyone who asked. So I wished — I wished for a best friend.”

“Aww, Mikey,” Calum says softly.

“And the next day I went to school,” Michael continues, “and I sat by myself at recess like I did every day, and then this kid came up to me, and he told me he liked my hair, and he asked me if I wanted to be friends.” He pokes Calum in the chest. “And I told him no, because I knew he’d grow up to be an asshole who would make me come to his stupid footie matches every week.”

“You’re such a sentimental,” Calum says; his eyes are open again, and they’re gazing straight into Michael’s. “I didn’t know about that.”

“I know. I didn’t tell. It felt silly,” Michael admits. “But I don’t know. I feel like I got lucky. And that I should repay that luck by trusting in the power of the 11:11 wish.”

“But I don’t understand why you’re _still_ wishing,” Calum says. “You’ve already got me. What more could you possibly need?”

“Arrogant much?” Michael mutters, grinning. Calum shoves gently against his chest, but then leaves his hand there, dragging lightly against his t-shirt. Michael wonders if Calum can feel the way his heartbeat is kicking up a storm inside his ribcage.

“I’m just curious,” Calum says, and Michael can hear the pout in his voice. “Like, what, are you wishing that I’ll stay your friend?”

Michael doesn’t answer.

“Wait, are you really?” Calum says slowly. “Because you know that’s ridiculous, right? Nothing in the history of anything could ever compel me to stop being your friend.”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael says. He presses his own hand on top of Calum’s against his chest. “I know.”

“Stop wishing for me,” Calum says gently, lacing their fingers together. “I’m not going anywhere. Do you believe me?”

“Yes, yes, obviously.”

“But?”

Michael exhales. “But I just…whatever _force_ , whatever _higher power_ brought you to me, I don’t want to pretend like I _earned_ your friendship. Like, I got so lucky. I just want to show that I appreciate it, you know? So they don’t take you away.”

“Jesus, Michael,” Calum says, an edge to his voice. “For a guy who says he’s not religious, you sure do put a lot of stock in fate. You ever think maybe I stick around because I like you? As a person? That I like to be around you, and that you make me laugh, and that you’re important to me?” 

“I know, I know.” 

“Do you?”

“I _do_ ,” Michael says. “I know. It’s just.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what it is. I’m not usually superstitious. You’re just, you’re important to me. And…every 11:11 since that first one, I’ve wished that you’d stay, and you’re still here, so.”

Calum huffs a laugh. “You’re an idiot, Michael.”

“What? I’m baring my soul and you’re calling me an idiot?”

“Yes, I am. Do you hear yourself? You’re trusting a _clock_ to decide if and when our friendship will end? Make your own decisions, Mikey. Are you leaving me anytime soon?”

“No,” Michael says forcefully. “I would never.”

“Well neither would I,” Calum says. He sounds steady, certain; there’s something calming about the ease with which he says it. “So why don’t you trust in me, and _this_ ,” he gestures between them, “and stop wishing about it on a clock.”

Michael watches Calum in the dark. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“I know,” Calum says.

“I love you,” Michael tells him, and it’s the simplest thing he’s ever said. It’s different to say it now than it has been before, after Calum’s done him a favor or helped him with something difficult, but it feels truer than it ever has.

Calum smiles. “I know,” he says again, and before Michael can reprove him for quoting _Star Wars_ , he closes the space between them and presses a soft kiss to Michael’s lips.

Michael feels warmth cracking open his chest, and he squeezes Calum’s hand when he moves away. “Are you gonna say it back or will I have to make a new wish on 11:11?”

Calum chuckles sleepily. “Of course I love you, Michael,” he says, curling into Michael’s chest. “I don’t know how else to know you.”

Michael falls asleep. Calum is still there in the morning, and even after Michael stops wishing on 11:11, every morning after that, as constant as clockwork, Calum is there. Michael never wishes for him to stay again. He knows Calum’s not going anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3 i'm on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) so come say hey!


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